I made some changes in my life recently. I got married. I changed my name. I got a haircut. I dyed my hair blonde. I haven't done that in years! I have been dying it a few shades darker since "Joseph" and I don't have any idea why, but it occurred to me that I didn't look half bad as a blonde. So once I chopped off all the hair I'd been saving for the wedding, I thought that maybe this would be a good time to dye it too...
I am enjoying my short blonde hair. It's actually more of a gold color...which takes me back to my early teen years. I used to spend entire summers outside so my hair eventually would turn a very gold shade of blonde and my skin would gradually tan.
I take it back...I didn't spend the ENTIRE summer outside.
I grew up in Minnesota. Seven o'clock in the evening was the latest one would want to be outside. I theorize that the sun has to hit the hiding spots of the "state birds" a certain way to let them know it is dinner time.
*cue the Star Wars music...or something very similar*
I imagine a tiny, diamond-shaped scepter standing diligently in its gilded stand. The scepter has the bit of ancient amber from Jurassic Park mounded in the middle (because, as we all know, mosquitoes believe they could bring back the dinosaurs and have formed several different denominations around this theory) which houses the great ancestor of the mosquito, the bigger mosquito. The sunlight is gradually edging its way through the thick weeds of the Midwestern wilderness until...alas! The amber glows as all of the classifications of light fuse together, focusing on the old beer bottle cap from one of my brother's bonfires. Inside of that tin lid are three dew drops, saved from evaporation by sheer luck of placement. The drops begin to boil and soon produce enough steam to lift a tiny runaway bubble from Mom's bottle of Dawn (which was used earlier that day to wash the pony in hopes that he would cool down) high enough to pop on the emerald tip of a healthy grass blade, awakening the caterpillar who had fallen asleep whilst munching. He then begins the heavy, slow descent down the beautifully arched jade frond, vibrating the nearby leaflets and awakening the slumbering crickets. Groggily, they creep to their assigned seats and begin tuning for their evening performance. Reverberations through the field cause thousands more crickets to stir and take their places. The spring peepers soon catch wind of the preparations and wriggle themselves out of their cool, damp caverns to join the assembling ensemble. Perched on the top of a small hill facing west, I intend to witness the cascading array of colors displayed during a Midwestern sunset. The wall of increasingly powerful chirps washes over me several times as it spreads all around me. A momentary pause captures my attention briefly and then the creatures of the dusk swoop into an astounding rendition of "The Flight of the Mosquitoes." The piece begins softly at first, hypnotizing me into a nostalgic stupor. My brain is sloughed over with mushy dreams and syrupy thoughts of things that were or could have been. The trap has been set. I do not notice the cavalry's air squad dive-bombing silently around me, seeking out all-important blind spot; the place where I will likely not see them nor feel them when they move into Phase Two. They discover a small spot just above my heels on the back of my legs where I don't smush them during preliminary testing. They vanish...I have not noticed them. The melody is played over and over with increasing intensity which is carefully matching and covering the buzz of the cloud forming above my head (and just out of my peripheral vision). The harmonies sweeten and float down the melodic scale and the raid begins, mosquitoes floating down from the sky in swarms to completely surround me. I, still lost in my wistful yearnings, sigh...then choke. The conceited insect had gotten too close whilst eyeing the soft tissues of my face and was inadvertently breathed in by his target. With the announcement of the first casualty, the troops attack, swarming and landing whenever they can. I try to swat at them but only push them out of the way, causing no real damage. The majority of the troops swarm about my face and ears where my softest tissues are (also where I will notice them the most) while a highly-trained group of snipers move into the blind spot. They fill until they cannot hold any more of my life-giving blood and then speedily depart, opening up the space for another formation. One particular participant makes a deadly mistake and aims too high. SMASH! His blood mixed with mine smears on my leg like war paint, causing the sniper factions to abort their mission. Once engulfed, a Minnesotan has two options. Either stand and fight, risking the swollen mass of torture and/or a bad night's sleep swatting dream bugs and affectionately rubbing one's skin while trying to kill the "oh my God my skin is crawling" feeling OR one could run like hell to the nearest mosquito-proof shelter and THEN rub one's skin affectionately (because that creepy-crawly feeling is inevitable after becoming engulfed by anything that sucks blood). I choose the latter option and hold my breath until my lungs ache and my body begins to shut down so as not to choke on the swarms still determinedly overwhelming me and fall on my face, risking torture and death by blood loss. I have the advantage of speed and smarts...I run under a low-hanging tree branch and book it to the door. I fling the sliding glass door open and slam it shut the second my body parts clear the track. Shaken, I catch my breath and watch the swarm circling like hungry buzzards. It takes them a few minutes but eventually one of them figures out that I'm not dumb enough to go wandering back out there and they fall back, floating upward and dispersing in an almost-comical "poof!" Breathing a bug-free sigh of relief, I hit the showers and soap every surface skin cell, taking inventory of the small red mounds. I take mental notice of where the general population is and thank the Lord it is in my nerve-free zone. After cleansing the surface of the skin (which generally removes the creepy-crawly feeling) comes the hydrocortizone, which I slather on each bump until it resembles a snowy mountain. I pop a Benedryl to (a) stop the itching from the inside and (b) help me sleep. Heading to bed, I stop at the table and make myself a sticky note which simply reads "Skeeter War." Tomorrow, I will spend a third of my gas-station-attendant paycheck on bug spray, citronella candles the size of tackle boxes and tiki torch fuel. The was has begun. It will start every day around 7:00pm (the beginning of the sunset) and end the next day around 9:00am (when the sun's brilliant rays become too intense for their tiny bodies). With the right equipment, I will be a force to reckon with during the feeding-frenzy. Sunset, here I come.
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